by Aimee Bender
Sexual intercourse was the inevitable conclusion of our trajectory. Our affection had grown rather deep and the ‘love’ word had been used on more than one occasion. As it happened, the intercourse was a result of passionate spontaneity. My clockwork father was out for the night at a ‘dreary old function.’ We were alone in my room discussing matters of interest. The conversation arrived at the topic of nipple wheeze. We lost ourselves in passion. I was blissfully inside her before I could fully comprehend my actions. Our awkward movements had a resonance of innocence that was purity embodied. As is common during one’s first sexual encounter, it was all over relatively quickly. The moment of climax was problematic. For the first time in years I felt the familiar discomfort as my urethra stretched beyond reasonable limits. My deposit was a treacherous one. It quickly became apparent that I had just ejaculated another moustachioed tiler, only this time into my sweetheart.
I had pulled out too late. It was post-coital devastation of a most unusual kind. I could detect the look of concerned confusion in my sweetheart’s eyes. I owned up almost immediately. I explained in detail about the tiler and the high probability that he was now residing somewhere in her vaginal tunnel. Her tears flowed endlessly. Between sobs I was implored to get it out at any cost. My efforts to calm her down via Rastafarian impersonation were an instant failure. I asked her to wait while I sought out a torch to shine directly up her region. Although I was gone mere seconds I’m sure it felt like hours to my poor little sweetheart as she sobbed wretchedly. Coils of smoke were floating from between her legs, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. I requested my sweetheart remain deathly still as it appeared the tiler inside her was smoking a cigarette. She fanned at the smoke as it attacked her pretty face. I asked her to part her vaginal walls, which she did in a surprisingly ladylike way. I shone my torch deep within her, searching out the moist crevasses. I could just make out what appeared to be a little hand, waving about a cigarette like some form of diva. I informed my sweetheart that I could see him and she again implored me to hurry. With a long-handled spoon I scraped about inside her, trying to ensnare the tiler. He was definitely privy to my intrusion as he dodged about, attempting to find sanctuary within the limited space available. Above me, my sweetheart squealed in a discomfort that I’m sure she viewed as pain. The real pain unfortunately was soon to come. As if the tiler was aware of the love I felt for my sweetheart he began to stab at her insides. I felt every little stab and slash. Her squeals of agony were intensified. I felt helpless as I desperately reached for the horrid little man. I did eventually manage to get his kicking body out but I tore my sweetheart up rather badly in the process.
With the bastard tiler in my tight grip I surveyed the scene. Bits of my poor little sweetheart seemed everywhere around the room. Needless to say, my carpet was sodden. My stony gaze returned to the squirming little tiler in my hand, the source of so much misery in my life. My first sexual experience had concluded with the death of my first true love. I felt worthless. My mind began to occupy itself with thoughts of the tiler and what I should do with him. I was at quite a loss until I remembered the previous actions of my father. That day, lying on the floor, covered in tiles, my father had indeed come to the rescue. His actions were so sure. He did what he did with barely a thought and it had worked. One thing you should know son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate. These were the strange words my father had said. With conviction I slid the moustachioed tiler into my tight anus.
The tiler’s presence was by no means muted. I could feel every movement as he writhed about my inner workings. A profound sense of discomfort overwhelmed my being as I contemplated the purpose of my actions. On top of the discomfort was the feeling that my bowel tract was at that very moment being tiled. Just how long the tiler was to remain inside me I didn’t know. The first few minutes had been extremely unpleasant and I shuddered at the possibility that the fate which had befallen me was a permanent one. How was I to go about my basic toiletries or even walk appropriately given the constant clench required to keep the wretched tiler inside? Clearly I needed to consult my father in the matter, which is precisely what I did.
I awkwardly walked toward my father in a style that could best be described as an elongated crab. He was in his sitting chair watching his stories. I wasn’t aware of my father’s televisual tastes but the show seemed especially unusual. There was a man on the screen, among the shrubbery, and the hat he wore was clearly incorrect. In a mild panic I averted my gaze. My father looked up at me, examining my blood spangled body. Rather than the shocked or horrified reaction I had anticipated, he simply nodded knowingly with a degree of genuine warmth that momentarily elevated me from the emotional doldrums I had been lost within. Explaining the situation in detail, with several well-timed points of the finger toward my backside, the gist was understood completely. He informed me that although he had chosen to dispose of the tiler via his anus, it wasn’t a path that I needed to take. He looked me square in the eye and repeated something that will resonate within me for the rest of my life:
“There are a million versions of right.”
Those were his exact words. They circulated throughout my mind as I tried to grasp their import.
I spent a great many weeks with the tiler inside me as I couldn’t find any alternative solutions to my woe. My precarious bowel movements were infused with miniature tiles and cigarette butts. I spent some time mourning for my sweetheart on the odd occasions where my mind wasn’t obsessed with the beast inside me. I had completely stopped attending classes and accepting guests into my home. These were dark days as I retreated more and more within myself, almost shunning the reality of the world around me. My father’s words were still but an unbreakable cipher in my mind. Any efforts made to convince my father to expand upon his statement were met with a solemn shake of the head and inexplicable gesticulation. Descending deeper into a private hell I beat upon walls with bare fists and slapped my weeping rump, trying to knock the tiler about. He remained very much alive inside me, assumedly remaining so via a back pocket full of never-ending sandwiches and God knows what other edibles.
When an unfortunate situation removes all vigour from life there comes a time when you must seek a conclusion. It appeared as though having the tiler inside me simply wasn’t working out as I’d planned. My bowels were pregnant with a life that irritated me to a completely unreasonable degree. After many sleepless nights, I finally arrived at the decision it was time for the tiler to go. I simply couldn’t tolerate his presence anymore. He had ruined all that was worthwhile about my life and if it didn’t end soon I feared my life would.
The bowel movement was dramatic in the worst possible way. Based on the sensation of my anal stretch and eventual tear, I was sure the tiler had grown in size. Sprays of gassy blood painted the toilet bowl murky red. Tiny tiles shattered upon impact with the porcelain. Stools of the most improbable shapes, colours and consistencies rocketed from my tiny hell hole. Then there was the smell! The fetid, miasmic stench engulfed the toilet room. I felt as if caught in a death tempest. Eventually, with much pain and applied pressure, the object of my woe slowly began to slide out of me. Bloody flatulence and splatterings of faecal inhumanities accompanied its exit from my worn and torn body. When I thought the pain could get no more severe I finally felt the tiler exit me completely and drop into the toilet stew with a mighty splash. I sat upon the toilet for upwards of an hour as I tried to assimilate the intense pain and fatigue I was feeling. When I had sufficiently recovered, it dawned on me that I could hear no sound whatsoever coming from the toilet bowl. I expected to hear the angry tiler splashing around, fighting for breath and swearing emphatically in my general direction. I tuned in closely to the minutiae of sound within the room. I concentrated so deeply that I heard the blood rushing through my veins but still, no thrashing, splashing tiler. Could it b
e true? Was the tiler dead? I was almost too scared to look. I had to psych myself into it. I slowly stood up with my pants still around my ankles and stared hard into the revolting bowl. Nestled within the grisly muck, exactly where I would have expected to find the tiler, I found something else; something that filled me with immense concern. If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, instead of the tiler’s body, all I could see was a rather large black stapler!
My mind was in cartwheels of wretched confusion. I immediately picked up the stapler, completely unaware I was subjecting my hand to pure filth. I held the stapler up, studying it. Toilet juice ran down my arm. I was far too preoccupied with the reality of the stapler to be overly concerned. Before I knew it I had entered into tiny mental spasms. I ran from the toilet room, stapler in hand, arms flailing, pants still at my ankles. A wall, which I swear should not have been there, eventually cut short my little episode by knocking me out cold.
I awoke to my father standing over me, staring down, face full of concern. I was covered in blood, tiles, faecal matter and cigarette butts. The stapler was still firmly in my grip. Once again my father had found me in an unfortunate situation with my genitals exposed. Through a daze of concussion I relayed the events which had just occurred. He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by my experience. He helped me up into a chair, looked hard at me and simply said, “Have you tried the stapler yet?”
I watched him walk away, taking position back in front of the television. I sat for a while, once again contemplating my father’s words. Everything appeared so simple to him. Perhaps the truth really was that simple. Perhaps I had let this whole situation work me up into a ball of neurosis for nothing.
I showered thoroughly, scouring every speck of my body several times over until I felt sufficiently clean. The stapler had been soaking in a cleaning solution that I’d purchased from a discount balm factory. By the time I was dried off and changed, it too was sufficiently clean. I took it with me into my bedroom and sat it on the desk. I ruminated for a while before I worked up the gumption to test its functionality. I squared a short stack of loose paper and readied the stapler for work. The result was an utter failure. There were roughly ten sheets in the paper stack and the staple barely penetrated the first couple. I kept subtracting sheets, seeking the threshold. As it turned out, the threshold was only three and even this appeared a struggle for the bowel stapler. This was the tiler all over again, I could sense it. He had seen fit to make my life unpleasant from the first moment I ejaculated him all those years ago. I didn’t know whether he had turned himself into the stapler or whether it was a naturally occurring phenomenon but it fit his modus operandi to a tee. I cursed his wretched name. I picked up the wretched stapler and motioned to hurl it against a wall. I stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I placed it back on the desk, glared at it, cursed the tiler once more and finally sought refuge in my bed. I fell asleep almost instantly with a conviction to never have an orgasm again.
The older you get the more difficult it seems to repress your sexual urges. At least this was my experience. I had blossomed into a rather attractive young man. I was understandably attracted to women and they me. I avoided relationships and situations that would provoke unwanted urges. The unpredictability of an urge-inducing situation was a constant problem. For instance, I might glance across and see a lady tying her shoe and nearly explode in my pants there and then. Life was a frustrating struggle and of course I eventually garnered a reputation for being either stuck up or of homosexual proclivity. To tell them the truth was not an option. Shortly after my 25th year, another wet dream struck.
I woke up completely draped in tiles save for my face and genitals. There was another moustachioed little monster, sitting on my chin, blowing foul smoke into my face. I passed out.
When I awoke the second time there was another tiler. They were fighting each other. Throwing tiles and kicking at shins. I watched the strange spectacle for some time, completely enthralled. Unusual feelings began to well within me. Staring at these little men, these little men whom I was responsible for creating, I felt somewhat like a god. Even if their purpose in life was to cause me discomfort and frustration, I was still their creator. Not even they could deny me that. I freed my right arm from its tile encrustation and began to masturbate ferociously. The ejaculation birthed forth yet another tiler from my weary penis. This tiler instantly joined the first two in their brawl. I kept masturbating, again and again. Each new ejaculation introduced new tilers into the fight. They were all identical with their moustaches and little white overalls. Hours passed, days passed, I lost all track of time. When my body finally gave in, there must have been close to a hundred tilers. The ongoing fight was full of violence. There were bloody corpses strewn throughout my room. Those still alive wouldn’t give up. They were each determined to be the only one.
Once again I awoke to the sight of my father standing over me. As my vision cleared it became apparent he was holding my testicles in his hand. They were no longer attached to my body. I slowly scanned the bedroom. There were no more tilers. What I plainly saw was a large black garbage bag. Through a small hole in one side a miniature, lifeless arm poked free. My anal stapler was still on the desk. It hadn’t been disposed of. As I stared once more at my severed testicles in my father’s hand, I pondered. My father had stopped being clockwork long ago. This further proved it. He carefully inserted my testicles into his anus and walked away, calling back, “This is just another version of right.”
HELLION
ALISSA NUTTING
I never had breasts until I went to Hell. When I died at the age of thirty-nine I was barely an A-cup. I often used to purchase bras from the preteen section. The bra I died in had tiny unicorns patterned across one nipple and tiny rainbows patterned across the other.
At first I thought it was a be-careful-what-you-wish-for type deal. All my life I had wanted a bigger chest, and now I was going to be saddled with one and learn all the ways that it’s inconvenient—back pain, unwanted attention, etc. But as I walked around I began to notice that all the females had them. I was looking down my shirt when another woman patted me on the back. “They’re for defense,” she winked. I didn’t understand until later that day when a fellow Hellion began hitting on me, a real know-it-all. The kind of person who always has a toothpick in his mouth. When I first got to Hell, I was shocked they’d let people have sharp objects like toothpicks; I expected the rules of prison. But that is lesson #1. Hell is not the same as prison.
As I grew angry with the guy, my breasts began to make a percolating sound. It felt like they were being forcibly tickled. My nipples hardened into nozzles and a bubbling green liquid that smelled like motor oil shot out of them. It sprayed all over the man’s face and his skin began to smoke and blister. I watched him run over to the lava pond and look at his reflection. “I’m a mutant for eternity!” he screamed.
A giant man named Ben walked up and put his hand on my shoulder. Ben is intimidating at first: he is covered from head-to-toe with eye implants. “Sorry about that,” he muttered. A bat poked its head out of Ben’s beard. The bat was wearing an eye patch. Some people in Hell are nice. They just happened to have done a very reprehensible thing at one point. I killed my husband once, for instance. But I felt bad enough about it to also kill myself.
Hell isn’t that awful, but it does smell. People often ask, “What died in here?”
The answer is complicated. It could be a lot of things. Our currency is little coins made of hair and liver that we have to spend before they rot. We get a weekly allowance, enough to keep most people entertained, but if we want more money we can mop the floors, etc. It’s common for people to start a collection as a hobby. For example, Ben collects eyes and surgically embeds them all over his body. His best eye is in his belly button. He wears little high-rise t-shirts so that his belly-eye can see and be seen at all times.
I expected a lot of axe murderers to be running around, licking bloody knives and looking sinist
er. But Hell really isn’t that violent. Something about the heat. Everyone is lazy and sluggish except the Caribbean pirates—they were already used to high temperatures. But now they can’t ravage women because of the bosom-acid, so they try to catch their flies with honey and are really quite chivalrous. If someone accidentally drops her purse into a lava river, they’ll use their peg legs to fetch it out. Wild serial killers are totally the minority down here. Hell is mainly full of people with tempers, or people like Thor.
“I still feel bad about Thor.” I heard the devil mumble this one night at the bar and inquired around. Apparently every few millennia Hell gets a case like Thor’s. He lived during the 1600s and was a brain-eater in both his real and after-lives. Normally Hell’s heat encourages people to slow down, but in Thor’s case it seemed to give him momentum. It became quite problematic, Thor running around brain-eating, so the devil turned Thor into a large rhesus monkey whose brain had already been eaten out.
But the change was too dramatic. It was like a father yelling at an irritating kid who then becomes completely quiet and joyless, so much so that the father feels remorseful. Prior to the change Thor was known for his relentless war chants, but after the metamorphosis he forgot all their words. He did nothing but silently pick insects from his fur, and the devil felt this silence as guilt. To make amends he gave Thor a sort-of brain, something similar to the motor from an electric pencil sharpener. Now everyone in Hell treats Thor with kid gloves.